


And I to you

by notveryhandy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Heaven Sent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23883790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notveryhandy/pseuds/notveryhandy
Summary: Clara breathes. Watches the Doctor’s chest rise and fall, and there is a moment of silence, of quiet, of peace. Before the Raven.Clara breathes. The Doctor does not.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor & Clara Oswald
Kudos: 11





	And I to you

“So you’re sacrificing yourself,” Clara asks, and it comes out harsh, harsh, so very harsh. “Again.”

And maybe he’s being irrational, but it’s not such a bad thing to the Doctor. “Clara, promise me-”

“I am promising you _nothing,_ Doctor. This was meant to be a fun trip. Now you’re _dying_ for someone you barely know, who probably won’t live much longer anyway!”

“Clara, promise me - promise me you won’t take revenge. Stop yourself, slow down.”

And no, she will not, cannot, can’t bear the thought of simply _stopping._

What else would she do? Smile politely and pretend nothing had happened. Go back to an ordinary life with ordinary people and tell them the Doctor is gone. No thank _you._

Clara breathes, waiting for the Raven. They are all waiting. Clara breathes. Watches the Doctor’s chest rise and fall, and there is a moment of silence, of quiet, of peace. Before the Raven.

Clara breathes. The Doctor does not.

* * *

There is a dial, a Confession Dial, and she has been here before. Death is a minor inconvenience when it comes to revenge, and it’s a dish served cold that’s been long in the making.

This is a different kind of breaking, and ironically the pain of holding herself together may well be what rips her apart. There is the Veil, a constant reminder that she’s the wrong one here.

It wants to know secrets, all sorts of secrets. She tells it everything she’s ever known, looks at it and sees a dark shadow of herself, and wonders if this is really the right path.

Wrong secrets. Nobody wants to know who _really_ stole Max Carter’s hat in Year Six, but spilling childish truths is better than revealing something which could doom everyone.

She’s bitter, but not that bitter.

* * *

Five hundred years passes in the blink of an eye, and she can feel herself crack a little. How long, how long will she wait here? It’s all empty room and echoing corridors, and desperate, aching pleas to leave, to stop, to escape.

Humans are not meant to live this long, only she’s still not entirely human, and never really has been, not since a long time ago. Clara Oswald is manipulation piled upon manipulation, countless lies pooled into one despicable person.

Humans are not meant to live this long, and when she looks into the cracked mirror hanging jauntily off the wall, she sees nothing she wants to see, anything but herself. 

The walls are crumbling, but then everything resets and only she is breaking up.

* * *

The Doctor is a hollow, rotting absence. She’d speak, only the weight of loss hangs heavy on her, and no, she will not show emotions. Grief is thick and impenetrable, and drags on-

Forever, and ever, and ever. She’s foggy on who she is now, is certain it’s been at least a few thousand years. The rooms rotate, the Veil hunts, she drags herself up to another brilliant, shining death.

So bland. So repetitive, and for what equates to a torture chamber she really can’t muster any sort of anger anymore.

The Doctor still lingers in the upturned stones and the nooks in the walls, and if she looks hard enough she can see the Doctor everywhere.

How typical.

* * *

 _Clara, Clara, Clara._ She can almost hear the Doctor’s voice, speaking to her fast and furious, alive and energetic and not. Fucking. Here. 

That’s stupid, she knows, but it’s true. Isn’t it? Stupid to point out the obvious, because she knows full well that the Doctor’s gone and she’s been here millions of years and by now she has probably done some sort of irreparable damage to herself.

Time Lords were never meant for this. She wonders how many levels of wrong this is for a human, not designed for wear and tear like this.

Telling herself the Doctor is dead hurts. It hurts with all the twisted glee of purposefully cutting yourself to remind yourself pain is a thing and this is what it feels like, though there is no need, no reason, no point.

There’s never really been a point.

* * *

She drags herself to the top anyway, and this time there is a way out. A Tardis - well, as fr as she’s concerned, _the_ Tardis. Or it might just be an illusion to comfort her, but the point is-

There’s a way out. How long? When she steps outside, who and what will be waiting for her?

Clara shudders, slightly, but only slightly. She is not _afraid._

The Doctor was afraid, and look where it got him, look, look, look. It is the sort of thing she cannot tear her eyes away from, even though she _knows_ this is not a good idea. Clara’s never been one for sensible ideas, really.

Fairytales are not constrained by the ways they have been told, but that doesn’t mean she has to write a whole new story. This is a tragedy that’s been seen before, most likely.

* * *

The Doctor is there.

The Doctor is staring.

The Doctor is _there,_ so close after all this time, lingering just out of reach. But this is about the Time Lords, or so he says.

She’s saved him, his whole damn life, and he’s focusing on cleaning up a different mess, one they both know he shouldn’t give a fuck about. So many things the a Doctor cares about that they don’t need to, like the Tardis or Gallifrey or even Clara.

She pushes the Doctor away, spiteful, and remembers just why the Doctor was a little scared of her.

* * *

It’s all over. There’s not one way out. “Clara,” he says, and there are so many hearts breaking it’s not worth counting, “I die.”

The Doctor, facing his death. What a shocker. “You can’t, Doctor,” she hisses. “How will the universe-”

“Cope, you say? Why, I think Clara Oswald will do just fine in my boots.”

She moved to leave, only the Doctor is holding something out. “Memory wipe.”

No. Not a chance in hell, not after all that.

“You’re fracturing, Clara. You’re not quite human anymore, and it’s tearing you apart. Piece by piece.”

“Then let it,” she says, so exhausted she nearly sobs. “Let it.”

“I can’t. You’re dangerous.” Of course. Isn’t that what she’d wanted to become?

“Don’t you _fucking_ dare. Let me go, Doctor, let me _go!_ ”

There is a hand on the side of her face, and a warm smile. “Doctor, please. You are worth dying for.”

“I know,” he says, or maybe that’s a hallucination. _I would die for you,_ she thinks, and maybe she says it out loud because the last thing she hears is a faint, ghostly echo which sounds like, like-

_And I to you._


End file.
